


Snowstorms, Scotch, and Sandwiches

by libertarian_firelord



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Arguments about Time., Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, I'm still an avgeek, Klangst Week Recovery, Lance is basically sleepdrunk., M/M, Marriage, More aviation, One Shot, Sleep drunkenness, Still kinda unsure how tags work, aged-up, pilot AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-31
Updated: 2017-03-31
Packaged: 2018-10-13 10:14:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10511697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/libertarian_firelord/pseuds/libertarian_firelord
Summary: "Keefnooooo""Keef yeeeees"In other words, Keith has a long, rough day, and just wants to get home to his husband. But what he finds isn't quite what he expects.Rating for language only.  Keith has what some might call a dirty mouth (though I'm sure most of you won't care in the least).





	

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is my first Klance fic. This was partially inspired by some fan art I saw by “captainneyu” on tumblr. You should totally go check this out, so here’s the link (still don't know how to make links click-able here, so you'll have to copy/pasta. Apologies):
> 
> http://captainneyu.tumblr.com/post/147585304943/thank-you-ohprcr-for-motivating-me-to-draw 
> 
> Also, I don’t have a tumblr, so on the off chance one of you dear readers is connected with this person on tumblr, feel free to let captainneyu know. They drew the VLD crew as airline pilots, and I wholeheartedly approved.
> 
> The second part of this is a bit that sprung into my head one morning at about 1:45. I thought about how they could be combined, and then this happened. 
> 
> I guess something called “Klangst Week” just happened, and even though this has actually been in the works since before Klangst Week, I’m officially prescribing y’all some domestic married fluff (don’t trust my prescriptions. I am not a doctor) (trust this prescription anyway) 'cause damn. Y'all are savage to the poor boys.
> 
> I don't own Voltron: Legendary Defender or any of these characters. Just having a bit of fun.

\---

 

“Of course.” At the sound of Shiro’s voice, Keith looked up from his checklist and out the right side cockpit window. “The minute we shut down the engines, the snow stops.” Sure enough, the freak snowstorm they had just battled through had lightened to a few solitary flakes drifting gently here and there. He let out a bitter chuckle as Shiro sighed and continued, “Why couldn’t it let up before we shot the approach? Woulda made our lives easier.”

“Murphy’s Law, man,” replied Keith as he undid his seatbelts, “or a corollary to it, at least. Geez, that was a long one. Did you note the flight time?”

“Five hours, fifty-four minutes.” Keith grimaced at that as Shiro continued, “As if the weather delays in Toronto, gales over the Great Lakes, _and_ turbulence kicking our asses all the way across South Dakota and Montana weren’t enough, the weather gods just had to conspire against us here in Seattle too.”

“Yes, Shiro, I’m sure it’s all a big conspiracy against you by deities I’m pretty sure you don’t even believe in,” joked Keith, as the two men packed up their flight bags and got ready to brave the cold Seattle night.

“Hey, exactly how often does it snow _that hard_ here? Sure, in western Washington, snow is fairly common—but _Seattle_? It was the snow gods, I tell you.”

“You’re right. Clearly, I need to reexamine my theology,” Keith deadpanned as he buttoned his trench coat. He rarely wore the coat as part of his uniform, but as he stepped out of the airplane and onto the stairs and felt the bracing wind curl around him, he was thankful for the extra layer of thick wool.

The pair walked across the freight ramp, the motors of the forklifts and the shouts of the ground crew unloading the cargo jet fading as they got closer to the terminal. Halfway across the tarmac, Shiro shivered and looked longingly at Keith’s trench coat. Keith caught the look and barked out a smug laugh.

“Hey man, not my fault if you don’t plan ahead.” Shiro just chuckled and flipped Keith the bird as he held the door open.

“Evening, Allura,” called Shiro as they walked into the freight terminal.

“You mean good morning! It’s already 12:38 am,” replied a masculine voice from behind the dispatch desk. A second later, an orange-haired dispatcher popped up into view above the desk. At Shiro’s disappointed look, Coran continued, “Sorry, Allura works tomorrow.”

“Damn, and I have tomorrow off. And also Coran, your voice is far too chipper for this time of day,” groaned Shiro.

“It’s unnatural,” added Keith.

“Oh, I really don’t think so guys—time is just a social construct anyway! I’m working on devising my own system. Instead of seconds, I use ticks. Like the ticking on a clock, but each tick is actually slightly longer than a second!” Keith held up a hand to try and forestall the inevitable lecture about the inconsequentiality of time— _It’s too damn late—early?—for an existential crisis_ , he thought.

“You say that, but you try flying an airplane for five hours, fifty four minutes dealing with nothing but shit weather, turbulence, and irritable air traffic controllers the entire trip, then tell me how inconsequential time is,” snarked Keith.

Unperturbed by the dark edge Keith’s voice had taken, Coran shot back, “Ahh, but under my new system, it wouldn’t be as long, since fewer ticks go by than seconds!” Keith raised a finger and opened his mouth to explain how that didn’t work, then thought better of it. Unabashed, Coran turned to Shiro and carried on. “Well at least you’ve got someone to go home _to_ , Keith, unlike _someone!_ ” while elbowing Shiro in the ribs. Shiro blushed tomato-red as he tried to stammer out a protest. Coran just laughed. The corners of Keith’s mouth quirked into what might (in some cultures) be called a smile, as he jumped on the chance presented to him.

“Yeah, Shiro—if you’d actually man the fuck up and ask her out, maybe we wouldn’t have to deal with your pining anymore,” Keith said, joining in Coran’s ribbing, this time with only a little heat.

“Guys, _guys_ , cut it out!” Shiro tried to placate the two pests digging him in the ribs. “Besides, don’t you know the old rule? Don’t go fishing from the company pier!”

“I blatantly ignored that rule when Lance and I were still flying the ATR—and, as Coran pointed out, now I actually have someone to go home _to_.”

Shiro considered for a moment, and then acquiesced. “…maybe you’re right.”

“Of course we’re right! You two are perfect for each other! You just need to get over yourselves!” Coran laughed.

“He’s right. Ask her out, man,” said Keith. Then, more to himself than anyone else, he mumbled, “and put the rest of us out of our misery."

“Alright alright alright,” Shiro, still beet-red, tried to deflect the conversation away from his troubled love life. “Though I must say Coran, your new attitude about time _does_ explain why you’re not too peeved at having to stay late thanks to our weather delay,” said Shiro. At this, Coran let the poor man off the hook, and replied.

“Good point, captain! I think I’d quite like to go home, so hurry up and sign out and we’ll get out of here!”

“Ah hah! So suddenly time _is_ of some consequence!” laughed Shiro, as the trio walked out towards the parking lots. As Shiro and Coran continued to debate the arbitrary nature of time, Keith just rolled his eyes, and hurried to his car, bidding the others a gruff “goodnight.”

“Drive safe—the roads probably aren’t plowed yet!” called Shiro behind him. Keith deflated at that realization, and waved a dismal hand to acknowledge the older man. _Shit, he’s right,_ thought Keith as he plodded away _. I’m tired after that hell of a flight, and now I have an hour’s commute on unplowed, snowy roads. Damn. It. All. To. Hell._

Finding his old red Subaru right where he left it, Keith tossed his bag in the back, got in, and cranked the engine to life. While letting it (and the heater) warm up, he turned on his phone. After a moment or two of loading, several messages pinged one after the other. Keith grimaced sympathetically at his poor phone’s attempt to handle Lance’s tendency to spam text.

 **Husband:** _(12:48 am) Hey hun, when you coming home?_

 **Husband:** _(12:48 am) Keithy, darling, where are you?_

 **Husband:** _(12:48 am) Sweetheart? Light of my life?_

 **Husband:** _(12:48 am) Baaaaaby. Im bored. Hunk and pidge arent around, so they cant amuse me. So it’s your job, hubby._

 **Husband:** _(12:49 am) Oh wait. Youre flying. That’s why youre not responding_

 **Husband:** _(12:49 am) Ignore me. Im an idiot._

 **Husband:** _(12:49 am) Why do all my friends and relations have to work for the same damn airline?_

 **Husband:** _(12:49 am) Says the guy who also flies for the same damn airline. Oh well. Ignore my hypocracy._

 **Husband:** _(12:49 am) *hypocricy_

 **Husband:** _(12:50 am) This oughta hurry your cute little ass up: [Attachment: 964KB. Download?]_

Curious, Keith tapped the download button. His heart rate picked up when a picture appeared: a high-angled selfie of Lance stretched out on their couch. Aside from the hem of his shirt riding an inch or two up his torso, exposing just a little taught, tanned skin, Lance was fully clothed. However, he had an absolutely devilish look on his face. His head was turned slightly away from the camera, but he looked right at Keith through teasing, lidded eyes. His smirk was borderline cocky, and to Keith, who knew Lance better than anyone by now, it was an invitation that promised far more than the mere picture could convey. _You little shit_ , Keith thought, as warmth rushed through him that had nothing to do with the car’s heater. _I am gonna kiss that smirk right off your pretty little face for this_.

With a new sense of urgency, Keith dropped his phone in the cup holder and patted the dash of his beloved Impreza. _Alright Red, you come from a long line of rally cars that won in all manner of terrain and conditions all over the world. This is just like a rally special stage, but there’s more than a gold medal waiting for me at the finish line. Don’t fail me now!_ He threw the car into gear, and headed out towards the northbound I-5.

 

\---

 

Completing his long commute home in a time that would have made Colin McRae proud, Keith walked across their building’s parking lot with a much more pronounced spring in his step; he barely felt the weight of his flight bag in his hand. Mounting the stairs two at a time, he fumbled briefly with his keys—nearly dropping them—before inserting the right key into the lock, turning, and opening the door all in one smooth motion.

“Honey, I’m ho-ome!” he called softly into the dark apartment as he shut the door behind him. There was no reply, only a faint flickering glow emanating from the door leading to the living room.

“Hel-looo? Is there anybody in there?” he called again. As he wandered down the hall towards the glow, he half-sang, half-muttered to himself “Just nod if you can hear me…” and chuckled quietly.

He rounded the corner into the living room, and saw why Lance didn’t respond to his accidental Pink Floyd quote: he was sprawled out haphazardly on the couch, dead asleep. Smiling softly, Keith leaned up against the doorframe and took in the sight of his love at rest—a rare sight indeed, given Lance’s usual energy levels. The man was constantly in motion when he was awake, be it his whole body as he ran around preparing for an outing, or merely his fingers, tapping impatiently as he waited to see if Keith liked his latest recipe. In short, he was a living embodiment of Newton’s First Law of Motion, and so to see his body at rest (and remaining at rest) was a rare sight for Keith.

Lance was flopped on the couch with one arm on the headrest, the other drooping off towards the floor along with one of his legs, the other leg resting on the opposite armrest. His head, laying on the armrest, was tilted toward the TV he had been watching, though his eyes had long since shut. This extreme level of relaxation was one Keith didn’t see very often, but he thought it was a good look on Lance—he looked peaceful. When he was awake, Lance’s excessive energy manifested itself in many ways: Brashly confident, gently caring, overly dramatic, smolderingly seductive. But this—this was something different. A sort of cherubic innocence graced Lance’s features, and Keith practically melted at the sight.

The sleeping man gave a little shiver, mumbled something incoherently, and curled up into a ball on the couch with his back facing the TV. Keith shrugged off his trench coat and draped it over his husband with the collar just brushing Lance’s ear. A second later, Lance “hmmmmed” with pleasure and cuddled up to Keith’s jacket.

“There you go, love,” Keith whispered, rubbing Lance’s back gently. After a moment, he straightened up, flicked off the TV, and tiptoed to the kitchen, all the while wondering what he did to deserve such a beautiful man in his life.

Rooting around in the fridge, his eyes fell on the jar of homemade jam given to them by their neighbor. _Man. A PBJ sounds_ so good _right now. Though, it’s not really a normal late night snack—oh, who cares. It’s fuck-me-o’clock in the morning, I had a long flight with a tough commute afterwards, and now I want a PBJ sandwich, so dammit—that’s what I’ll have_. He grabbed the jar.

Keith puttered about the kitchen, grabbing the other ingredients and utensils necessary for sandwich assembly, narrowly avoiding knocking over three days’ worth of precariously stacked (“strategically arranged,” Lance called it) dishes piled in the sink in the pursuit of his favorite spreading knife. _Why do the dishes never seem to get done when I’m on a trip?_ Keith wondered. _At some point, someone’s gonna have to take care of that. But it won’t be now, and it won’t be me._

Returning to the matter at hand, Keith paused to think what would go well with a PBJ after such a long, hard day. After a moment’s internal debate, and a double-check on the calendar to make sure he wasn’t flying again within the next day, he reached up on top of the fridge where he kept the scotch, then went and grabbed a tumbler. _Because what goes best with a PBJ? 15-year old Glen Tavish Blue Reserve single malt_ , he chuckled to himself. He poured a finger’s width into the glass, then one more after recalling the trials of his day. He went to add one more ( _For good measure_ , he thought), but stopped himself as he heard a snuffling coming from the figure curled up on the couch in the other room. On the other hand, maybe it hadn’t been _that_ bad, after all. He put the cap back on the bottle, and put it away.

After a few bites of the sandwich, Keith leaned back against the kitchen counter and took a sip of the whiskey—which tasted terrible in concert with the pomegranate of the jam in the PBJ. He grimaced, and looked back and forth between the sandwich in his right hand and his scotch in his left. _Then again, I don’t really know what I expected_ , he thought, somewhat philosophically. He set the whiskey down, and kept eating the sandwich.

After he finished, Keith put the bread, peanut butter, and jam back in their respective places, and went to put the knives into the sink. He added them to a cup which had several forks and spoons already in it, figuring that must be the unofficial “silverware cup” for whoever did the dishes next. He turned back to where his scotch awaited him, when suddenly the peaceful quiet of the apartment was shattered by the sound of crashing dishes and clattering silverware. Before he could even turn around, a Tupperware lid somehow went flying right by his head at what he figured must be nearly supersonic speed, missing by a mere inch and a half.

“Shitshit _shit_ ,” Keith hissed, cringing at the noise. He turned slowly back towards the sink, hoping to spare himself from seeing the damage as long as possible. He was relieved to see that most of the stuff remained in the sink, though he shuddered to think about what remained of the glassware.

After picking up the fallen (and luckily unbroken) items and returning them all to the sink— _Organizing them is a problem for tomorrow-_ Keith was just about to go off in search of the rogue Tupperware lid, when a weight settled on his left shoulder and warmth pressed against his back. Lithe, strong arms in black uniform coat sleeves wrapped themselves around his waist. Keith smiled.

“Hello my love,” Keith purred.

“H’louhutu” Lance mumbled. Keith shifted his head to examine the head resting on his shoulder. Lance’s eyes were still closed, confirming that he was still mostly asleep.

“How was your day?”

“Hmmmmm…mssdyu.”

“I was only gone for three days—but I missed you too,” Keith said as he reached up to pat his husband’s cheek affectionately. “Listen though, you need to let me go for a second.”

“Noooooooo.”

“Yeeeeees,” Keith mimicked Lance’s sleep-drunk slurring as he pried his husband’s noodly arms from around himself.

“Keefnoooo” Lance repeated his protest.

“Keef yeeees,” Keith replied again as he stepped in the direction he had seen the low-flying lid go off in, “There’s a Tupperware lid that that’s trying to make a break for it, and I’d like to find it before we go to bed.” Lance only pouted in reply as Keith retrieved the lid that attempted low-earth orbit, but really only achieved low-counter orbit.

A few moments of searching later— _How the_ hell _did it end up on the third shelf of the bookcase?!_ —Keith returned to the kitchen, runaway Tupperware lid in hand, only to see Lance practically sleepwalking around the corner to their bedroom. Keith tossed the lid towards the sink (he missed—the damned thing still ended up on the floor anyway. _Because why wouldn’t it?_ Keith thought sardonically), and then hurried after his partner.

“No, no, wait, Lance—wait,” he grabbed Lance by the collar of his (own) jacket, right before Lance could crawl into their bed. “No, Lance, you cannot sleep in my uniform jacket. It’ll get all wrinkled.”

“Bu’s’warm.”

“You know what else is warm? The blankets on our bed.”

“Bu’ih’smllsikeyu.”

“You know what else smells like me?” He leaned over and kissed Lance gently on the cheek. “Me, you dingus. Let me just get out of this uniform, and I’ll be right there.”

“O-k.” Keith pulled his coat off Lance, who promptly crashed into the bed. Keith wandered over to their small walk-in closet and removed his uniform piece by piece, putting everything in its appointed place in anticipation of his next trip.

Finally, he re-emerged wearing a comfy old t-shirt and gym shorts, and wandered briefly through their apartment, checking all the locks and turning out all the lights. As he wandered back through the kitchen, he noticed his forgotten tumbler of scotch, still on the counter where he left it.

“Can’t waste such quality scotch. Didn’t someone say there’s a special circle of hell for those who waste good booze?” He mused aloud, then downed what remained in the glass, enjoying the smoky warmth that spread through his core.

The trials of the day finally caught up to Keith, and he yawned as he put the glass near the sink— _I’m not putting it_ in _the sink this time though_ , he thought as he looked down at the Tupperware lid still on the ground—and he wandered back towards the bedroom. Lifting the blanket, he carefully slid in beside the man he fell in love with years ago, and as he cuddled up against him, he heard Lance let out a small sigh. Keith reached up, brushed Lance’s hair out of the way, and very gently kissed the nape of his neck.

“G’night, love,” he whispered, wrapped an arm around Lance’s waist, and quickly drifted off to sleep himself.

 

End.

**Author's Note:**

> So yeah. That’s a thing. For whatever it may be worth, this started out as pure Klance—I wasn’t even going to bring in any of the others. I blame Amateum, who kept saying “hey what if this?” and “how did that happen?” and in answering those questions, plot happened (insofar as this fluff passes for plot—hah!). In captainneyu’s art, Allura and Coran appear to be flight attendants, but since there are no flight attendants in the cargo aviation world (boxes don’t need drinks served to them), I made them dispatchers/station agents instead. Also I don’t even know what happened to Pidge and Hunk in this story. In the inspirational art, Hunk is also a pilot, and Pidge appears to be an air traffic controller, but in my universe, Pidge isn’t a controller—she’s not one of the assholes Keith complains of (I couldn’t do that to Pidge). So maybe they’re both also pilots on their own trips in this time frame? I don’t know. 
> 
> Basically, I have this headcanon where the entire gang, for whatever reason, all work for the same freight airline, and hang out together at one of their apartments in their off time. This fic, I guess, is just a small snippet of that world (though at this point, I don’t have any more planned for this—and I doubt I will. You’d be surprised at how boring modern airline flying is). 
> 
> As always, many thanks to my editor extraordinaire, Amateum, for editing this. She's still the best--even when we spend 200 words arguing about sandwich-making theory/practice or yelling at each other on FB about how stretchy rubber taffy would be.


End file.
